


Once Upon A Time.

by theweakestthing



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Ugh, band au-ish, famous au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3518024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweakestthing/pseuds/theweakestthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You leave for almost a year and when you come back it seems like everything and nothing has changed," he mused eyes scanning the streets. </p><p>"That's just the way things are, you leave a place and you leave a part of yourself with it. So when you come back you've changed just as much as it has, it's all reflected in the nostalgia and feeling of difference mixed together," Fushimi said, he'd probably read that somewhere or lots of somewheres.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon A Time.

Yata wiped the towel over his damp face as he stepped forward from the drum kit, lining up with his band mates to bow for their applauding audience. Stepping down from the stage, he thanked all the staff members that helped to make that night happen. 

To him it was just the same shit only a different day. Nothing was new, even when you were constantly on the road. Different province and different town, it didn't matter everywhere just blurred together. 

At least that night was the last for a while, Yata was home sick. He ached for his family and a sense of familiarity, but most of all he wanted to sleep in his own bed. 

Yata tapped a tune out against the window, fingers drumming against the glass. Tall grey buildings gave way to long expanses of green and slowly turned back to grey. 

He helped with putting their stuff into storage before he made his way back home. The second he walked through the door, his sister pounced on him, hanging off of him. Yata wrapped his arms around her small frame, she was a handful, six years old and already half his size, which wasn't much of an accomplishment. 

"Misaki's home!" She screamed the house down, eyes and mouth wide with glee. 

"Alright, Saiko I'm home, can I please take off my shoes now?" Yata asked, smiling down at her, she nodded climbing off of him slowly but staying close by him. He kicked off his shoes as his mother came round the corner, wearing an apron and a soft smile, welcome home on her lips. "Hey mum, I'll just take these up" he smiled tiredly, picking his bags up from the floor, Saiko insisted upon carrying one of them up to his room. 

"I'll make some tea," his mother called from the bottom of the stairs. 

His room was exactly as he had left it, like a time capsule. It hits him with the strongest sense of anxiety, almost knocking him to the ground with the force of it. Old photographs and posters, high school diploma that no one expected him to get. It was his past but also his present, flight tickets, new photographs, pristine drum kit and boxes of sticks stacked in a corner. He closed the door behind him and made his way down stair, Saiko dragging him all the way down.

Yata sat at the dining table, Saiko's drawing's sprawled out across it. They were mostly of him and his band, one was even a crude copy of a press photo. The others were various animals, her school friends and their mother.

"This one's the house with me, you and mum outside," Saiko pointed out, jamming her finger against the paper. "O-oh, we saw you on the tv yesterday!" She suddenly remembered, bouncing in her chair.

"Yes, she was so excited," his mother patted Saiko's head as placed the tea upon the table. "We had to be extra quiet, Mrs. Yoshida found it quite endearing," she smiled.   
"What?" Yata asked, sighing as he sipped his tea. 

"You and your band, at first she was a little irritated by Sakio's constant shushing but then you cute boys grabbed her attention," his mother chuckled, "she's become quite the fan."

"Ugh," Yata groaned, "I don't know how I feel about having a seventy year old fan," he shook his head with amusement. 

Yata spent that day creating precious memories with his family, fell into his bed like returning to a lover. 

-

Yata Misaki, drummer of a better than average band, according to Fushimi, had just walked into Fushimi's favourite park and sat down beside him. 

Despite being sort of a fan, Fushimi didn't want to bother the man, or come off as a creepy weirdo stalker. So he sat there reading his book, Yata was a human being and was probably thankful not to be bombarded by fans and nosy passersby's. 

"Um," Yata cleared his throat, turning to Fushimi. 

Fushimi turned to the other, humming, and it was a terrible idea because really who had the right to look like that when he wasn't even prepared? His humming broke off in a high pitched ring, golden eyes shining like the sun up at him. 

"Do you know any decent book shops around here?" Yata asked, nervous laughter in his voice. Fushimi smiled, that day was really turning out to be a great day. First there was the wondrous sight before him and then there was that question, if he wasn't so cynical Fushimi might have chalked it up to fate. He wasn't about to give some mystic bullshit all the credit though. 

"I happen to own the best bookstore in town," Fushimi put on his sales smile, small and soft. 

"Wouldn't every bookstore owner say that?" Yata said with an arched a brow.

"I suppose they would," Fushimi shrugged and Yata smiled back at him. 

Fushimi led Yata to his store, walking through the sun soaked streets.

"What are you looking for?" Fushimi asked, slightly curious but mostly because it'd be pretty difficult to help someone find something without knowing what they're looking for. 

"Something for my mother, it's her birthday in a few days," Yata stated. "You leave for almost a year and when you come back it seems like everything and nothing has changed," he mused eyes scanning the streets. 

"That's just the way things are, you leave a place and you leave a part of yourself with it. So when you come back you've changed just as much as it has, it's all reflected in the nostalgia and feeling of difference mixed together," Fushimi said, he'd probably read that somewhere or lots of somewheres. 

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Yata said, "when did you move here?" He asked tilting his head upward toward Fushimi. 

"About four months ago," Fushimi replied. 

"I grew up here," Yata stated. 

"I know," Fushimi said, "you're kinda famous," he sent a small smile down at the other. 

"Hehe, yeah sort of," Yata said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"No need to be so modest, you're practically all they play on the radio," Fushimi said, he hated faux modesty. He'd met plenty of writers that would swear they were no good but fawn over his every compliment, but then again you couldn't fake a blush. He watched the flush spread over the bridge of that pretty nose, catching it before Yata turned away. On the other hand, genuine modesty was something that Fushimi adored, watching someone come apart from kindness was something that he really got a kick out of. 

They reached Fushimi's modestly sized bookstore, it was quaint and stylish in an understated way that went completely over Yata's head. Yata began to scan the shelves, looking over things without rhyme or reason. 

"What sort of books does your mother read?" Fushimi asked, waving off an employee who looked like she was about to burst at the sight of the pint sized rockstar. 

"Detective stories," Yata said, pensively shifting on his feet. "She likes shocking ones, ya know with like twist endings," he threw out. 

Fushimi strode off in the direction of the mystery section, Yata on his heels like a nervous Pomeranian. He pulled a book from the shelves, the cover was elegant without being flashy. 

"Has she read this one?" Fushimi held it out for the other. Yata read the title and the author, despite not really having a clue. 

"I don't think so," was the best he could give. 

"Well, it's my best recommendation," Fushimi said, "a woman is found dead in a locked room, the key is inside the room, the detective himself is intelligent and endearing and there's a quite sizable twist at the end," he elaborated, giving the other his sales pitch. 

"Right," Yata nodded, "sounds good," he smiled. 

"I'll ring it up," Fushimi said walking back over to the counter, no discount or special service, getting him out from behind the counter was special service. He sent Yata on his way with a hearty 'hope to be seeing you soon.' 

-

Yata went back to the bookstore after his mother's birthday, mostly to avoid Mrs. Yoshida and only a little because he couldn't get that guy out of his head. The tall somewhat unfriendly snap of a man had left an imprint upon Yata, if only he could be that smooth, speak so easily. 

He had no excuse for being there, none at all. So when Fushimi spoke to him that familiar heat rose up his face. 

"What brings you back?" Suave smile sliding along those lips. 

Yata's mind went blank. White, nothingness. 

"Um," to be honest he wasn't much better on talk shows either. 

"Did your mother enjoy the book?" Fushimi asked, revelling in the other's flustered stuttering. 

"Y-yeah, she thought it was wonderful, got through half of it in one day," Yata said, brain spluttering to life again. "Almost burnt the dinner because of it," he smiled. 

"I'm glad," Fushimi said, "not about the dinner, but that she's enjoying her present," he added. 

"Right."

Yata stood there awkwardly for a moment. Heart hammering from the way Fushimi was staring at him, from the way the silence seemed to be crushing him. 

"Anything else?" Fushimi asked, chin rested in his palm. 

"Um, I'm on a three month break and I don't really have anything to do," Yata mumbled, "all my friends live in the city and they're part of the band so I'm kind of sick of seeing their faces," he chuckled nervously. "A-anyway, I was wondering if there was anything you could recommend, I meant a book you could recommend," Yata wanted to suffocate himself, at least then he'd definitely stop talking. 

"Well, you came to the right place," Fushimi said, standing up straight and managing to tower over Yata even from across the counter. "What sort of books do you read?" 

"I don't," Yata admitted sheepishly.

"Okay," Fushimi said, drawing out the syllables. "What sort of story are you in the mood for?" He tried a different angle. 

"Something action packed, like maybe a dude that's as cool as Indiana Jones," Yata mused tapping his foot and holding his chin. 

"Indiana Jones isn't cool, he just wings it and things tend to turn out okay," Fushimi said flatly. 

"Indiana Jones is totally cool," Yata yelled indignantly, "he got stuck in a room full of snakes, that he's completely afraid of, and didn't piss himself but managed to get out because he can overcome that bullshit," he continued excitedly. 

"He doesn't overcome it, he's still afraid of snakes, he just ran away almost pissing himself," Fushimi said, lips curling as he spoke. 

Yata growled and Fushimi gave him a short action packed book that he didn't regard too highly, but everyone else seemed to rave about it. 

And it went on like that for weeks, Yata would quickly finish the book, return to the store, get embarrassed, have an argument about taste and then he'd leave with a book and a small sense of disappointment until he tripped over his stupid massive mouth.

"You get a kick outta this don't you," Yata accused, red staining his face at something Fushimi had said. 

"Yes, but it isn't quite as satisfying anymore," Fushimi said in a bored tone. 

"What does that mean?" Yata said, top lip curled upward. 

"You really aren't the book reading type," Fushimi stated, gesturing to Yata's clothes and general appearance. 

"Well, I can't really argue with that," Yata agreed, he'd said as much before. 

"So why did you really come here that second time?" Fushimi asked, head tilted in that way that reminded Yata of a predatory bird. 

"Um," Yata's brain began to shut down as humiliation took over. 

"Um?" 

"I."

"You?"

"Er."

"Yes?"

"I kinda wanted to see you," Yata blurted out, scrunching his eyes shut. 

"Okay," Fushimi said, "that wasn't so hard was it?" Yata peaked up through one eye. 

"It's always terrible," he muttered, eyes squarely on his tatty sneakers. 

"That shade of red really suits you," Fushimi said, smile apparent in his tone, Yata's eyes snapped up to him. 

"S-shut up!" Yata barked and turned, then stopped. It was dark outside, which meant that he'd been standing in that bookstore arguing about action movies and character motivations practically all day. He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. 

"Hadn't you noticed the time?" Fushimi said in that all knowing self-satisfied way that had fire licking up Yata's belly. Yata turned around, spinning on his heels. That smirk that he loved and hated in equal measure met him. 

"You're insufferable," he spat. 

"How come you're still here then?" Fushimi returned. 

"I've gone insane, that's it, I've gone completely insane," Yata said, mostly for show. 

"Maybe you're a masochist," Fushimi smiled. 

"Maybe you can fuck off," Yata returned. 

"Eloquent as ever, Misaki," Fushimi said, checking his watch. 

"Don't call me that," Yata whined, watching Fushimi come around the counter and flip the sign over from 'open' to 'closed'. 

"I quite like it actually," Fushimi said, towering above Yata, cowering the other. 

Yata whimpered. 

"Misaki," Fushimi said as he leaned down, breath ghosting over Yata's face and suddenly the smaller was far too hot for comfort. 

Yata whimpered again. 

"Why did you want to see me, Misaki?" Fushimi's words drifted like smoke along Yata's skin and the latter breathed them in.

"I don't know," Yata said softly, blinkingly slowly up at the other. 

"I think you do," Fushimi said, lips grazing ever so lightly over Yata's own. 

"I probably do, but it's really embarrassing to admit it," Yata conceded drunk on the way Fushimi's eyes held his own, dark and sharp like the reflection of a star in the tremulous sea. 

"Then speak with your actions, Misaki," Fushimi said, lips hovering over Yata's, determined not to make the first move. 

There were many things that Yata had learnt about Fushimi over the past few weeks, things like: how he clicked his tongue whenever something irritated him, how his eyes would light up with that smirk when something amused him, the gracious way his slender fingers would bend around a book, how he didn't have a favourite author but instead liked stories that were like nothing else, how he sneezed in the cutest of ways, the fact that he didn't follow trends or care about what was cool or not, that he actually liked Yata's band, that he was business minded and excellent with numbers in a way that made Yata dizzy when he spoke of it, that he loved arguments and being contrary just to mess with people.   
Fushimi wasn't perfect, not by a long run, but then again neither was Yata and he was inexplicably drawn to the other. 

Yata leaned upward, capturing the front of Fushimi's dress shirt in his fingers, pulling the other down. He brought their lips together, slowly at first but the kiss grew into a crescendo. Then things moved like a whirlwind and Yata really barely noticed being drawn up into Fushimi's arms and carried to the backroom, only becoming aware that he was pressed against the stairs when Fushimi pulled away. Breaths harsh and shallow between them. 

And suddenly Yata remembered that it'd been far too long and his body ached for the other, realising that he didn't have much time left to consume the other's attention, soon he'd be on the road again, soon he'd be back in that recording booth. He didn't let go, knuckles turning as white as the fabric twisted between his fingers. 

"Can't wait," Yata said breathlessly. 

"Funny that," Fushimi smiled, really smiled down at Yata and it seemed to blind the other, "I was just thinking the same thing." He hoisted Yata up again, the other's legs wrapping around his waist as he rejoined their lips. 

Yata only noticed that there were two doors between the stairs and the bedroom and he only knew it was a bedroom because he was certain that it was a bed he was pressed against. 

"The little back and forth was fun, don't get me wrong," Fushimi murmured as he trailed kisses down Yata's neck, "but this is infinitely better," he curled his fingers under the hem of Yata's t-shirt, pulled it up and over the other's head. 

"Couldn't agree more," Yata said hurriedly, mouth latching onto whatever skin his lips could find as he made quick work of the buttons of Fushimi's shirt. The fabric fell from the other's form and Yata felt spoiled by the sight of Fushimi's body. 

Clothes were discarded in a flurry, being thrown to the floor as though they burnt the men. Skin on skin, finally and they sighed into each other. Fingers tracing, gripping, grasping and caressing each other's heated bodies, Yata could hardly breathe from the way Fushimi's elegant fingers tangled in his hair pulling him toward the other. 

Fushimi opened him up slowly, fingers coaxing him in that bittersweet way that had him begging for more torture. Back arching off the bed as he writhed, legs quivering.   
It was Yata that said enough, said that he couldn't take it anymore, said that he needed Fushimi then. And Fushimi had told him to call him Saru and he started again.

"Saru, I think I love you," Yata said quietly, words pressed against the other's lips as he descended upon Fushimi. 

Yata set the tempo and kept the rhythm, riding Fushimi like he was at the grand national. And all Fushimi could do was watch the other shine, speaking Yata's undoing into the other's golden locks. All sense of timing was quickly lost as their need for each other only grew the longer they were joined, Fushimi's hand grasped Yata's erection and that was all it took to have the other bent up shuddering against him. Fushimi quickly followed suit, whispering Yata's given name against the other cheek as he came.

"I think I love you too," Fushimi murmured, breathing laboured as he laid them down upon the bed. "In the world of literature, this is what we call a whirlwind romance," he said, smirking into Yata's hair. 

"I don't care what they call it, you're mine," Yata said, eyes closed as he got comfortable, head rested upon Fushimi's chest. 

"I suppose I am," Fushimi said. 

"No," Yata muttered. "There's no suppose, you just are."

"Where'd the shy boy go?" Fushimi said, tone amused.

"I think he's still down stairs, stuttering," Yata returned sharply. 

"I've got the feeling I'll be seeing him in the morning," Fushimi said, wrapping his arm around Yata's shoulders. 

"Yeah, me too," Yata said, burying his face against Fushimi's shoulder, hiding. Fushimi laughed.


End file.
